by Debi Swim
The cursor blinks
between words, between thoughts
waiting. for words. to appear.
Sometimes, I get up. Walk around.
hoping for inspiration, direction,
not even considering that it blinks.
like a heart, like a pulse, keeping
me alive. I take it for granted, like
my heart. How many beats left
before the end? How many blinks
till it is over? No more poems?
No more inspiration?
That will be a kind of death.
Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Prompt 338.
Debi Swim writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.